


Mending Cracked Reflections

by cleromancy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Coming Out, Family, Gen, Gender, Gender Identity, LGBTQ Themes, POV Second Person, Siblings, Trans, transgender character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:52:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleromancy/pseuds/cleromancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon and Robb have a sleepover and a heart-to-heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mending Cracked Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Accidental (unknowing) misgendering occurs in the story, as well as imagined misgendering, reference to past misgendering, and use of a birth name in the absence of a preferred one. A heterosexist slur (specifically one against queer women) is used once. Some internalized cissexism.
> 
> Thanks to Ezra, Ash, and Ziggy for encouragement, editing, and advice.

You've been staring at the ceiling for hours now, praying for a reprieve from racing thoughts long  
enough to pass out, when a soft noise at your door catches your attention.

Dim light from the hallway spills into the room as your brother pushes the door open. He edges his way in, closes it most of the way behind him before padding over to your bed. Without a word, you lift up the corner of your blanket for him, scooting over so he can wriggle under the covers next to you.

Robb sleeps better with someone else in bed with him, so he sneaks down to your room sometimes. You don't mind; he's not too hard to share with. Sometimes he steals the blankets, but if you kick him awake he gives them back, and he doesn't sleeptalk like Arya does. Plus when he sleeps over, you actually get to see him without insufferable Theon Greyjoy lurking behind. Lately Robb doesn’t go anywhere without Theon at his heels, strutting and smirking. You miss the days when it was just you and Robb.

Last year, you and Robb were told you couldn’t share a room because brothers don't share rooms with sisters, especially not as old as twelve. Hearing that had made you uncomfortable in ways you didn't understand, a strange churning in the pit of your stomach. When you surreptitiously glanced at Robb, he looked like he felt as weird as you did. That had cheered you up, and when Robb came down for a sleepover regardless, you felt even better.

Now he’s nestling into your bed, trying to get comfortable. As he’s squirming, he elbows you in the ribs.

You grunt. "Watch it."

"That was an _accident,_ " Robb says indignantly.

"Sure it was," you say, mostly just to see Robb's offended face.

Robb shoves you. "That was on purpose," he says.

For a moment, you consider shoving him back. Instead, you raise your eyebrows and look at him with deep disdain, leading to a staring contest that lasts about ten seconds before Robb huffs at you and gives up, wriggling deeper under the blankets. 

Satisfied, you lie back down to turn in for the night, but Robb can’t seem to settle, shifting around under the sheets. When you glance over, his face is scrunched up, lips pursed in a half-frown, as if he’s got something to say. 

Wild thoughts flash through your head—fear, dread, a split-second conviction that he somehow _knows_ —with logic chasing at its heels: there’s no way he could have found you out. Still, you tense in anticipation.

You don’t have to wait long before Robb speaks up.

“You haven’t been acting like you lately,” he says bluntly. “Did Ygritte break up with you?"

If it was something that simple, you would have told him by now. But that’s something new to worry about—you don’t even know if Ygritte _likes_ boys. Even if she does, she probably doesn’t like the ones like you. 

Not that you can tell Robb any of that. You sigh, turning over on your side, facing away from him.

"Nah,” you say quietly. “Things have been weird, that’s all.”

Behind you, Robb's fidgeting under the sheets. After a moment, he asks, tentative, "Weird, like, with Ygritte?"

"No," you say. "With me."

Robb doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, resuming his fidgeting. You can feel him staring at the back of your head. He’s probably trying to guess what’s wrong, you think, stomach squirming. Still, you shouldn’t be so anxious. He won’t figure out what’s wrong. He’s never had to deal with anything like this. It would never occur to him: it’s not a normal problem, not like being a girl who likes girls, or like being a girl whose girlfriend is breaking up with her. 

Your throat closes up. Her. He doesn't know that's not who you are. He won’t know you’re not unless you tell him. You know you can’t, but God, you want to tell _someone_.

It’s been crushing you from the inside out for months, a growing lump in your throat, a churning heaviness weighing on your lungs. You feel like you’re misleading everyone, every time someone calls you _girl_ , or _young lady_ , or _miss_. Even _dyke_ hurts for all the wrong reasons. It’s like there’s a lie living in your skin, broadcasting itself to everyone you see. Like you’re deceiving the world just by existing.

But telling Robb won't help anything. You don’t know what he’d think of you, but it wouldn’t be anything good. At best, he’d laugh. He’d think you were joking, making things up to mess with his head. _Everyone knows you can’t be a boy if you don’t have the right parts. Have you been hiding a penis this whole time? Where were you keeping it? I can’t believe Theon was right when he said you stuffed your bra_. Robb would laugh, and then he’d ask what was _really_ bothering you.

Or he’d think you’re a freak.

And maybe you are. Maybe it’s what you need to hear. Maybe it would make all this go away. But coming from Robb, any of that would break your heart. You can't tell him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

 _He'll never know,_ you think. It’s no comforting.

“Like..." Robb says. “Like a different weird than you usually are?” 

Indignant, you flip around to shove him, despondent introspection forgotten. He blocks your hands, giggling (he insists he doesn't giggle, but he _does_ , high and bubbly whenever he's happy), and some of your tension melts. He kicks at you under the blankets, you kick back and swat at him, and then you're fighting under the covers, him still giggling wildly, your laughter hushed and near-silent. 

Then Robb manages to kick the comforter off of the bed, killing the scuffle, and he ducks down to retrieve it. As he gathers it up, you untangle yourself from the sheets, tugging them back, then help Robb to resettle the blanket overtop. Once you’re covered again, Robb squirms up to you, twining his legs with yours, because he’s an insatiable cuddle freak. You sigh pointedly at him, prompting him to make an innocent face back.

Sobriety fades in. Fooling around with Robb like nothing's different—would that still happen if he knew? He doesn’t know he’s not making faces at his sister. He won't know until you tell him.

He should know. He’s your brother. He’s _Robb._

He won't know unless you tell him. You don't have to tell him. He never has to know. If he knew, would he still kick you under the blankets? Would he still pull faces at you and snuggle in until you’re all tangled up together?

It’s Robb. He’s your closest friend in the world. It’s hard to think what it would be like if he wasn’t a part of your life. But maybe… maybe he should know. If he wouldn't want to be your brother if he knew, then. Maybe he deserves to know. If he wouldn't like it, if he wouldn’t want to be near you if he knew, you shouldn't keep it from him, should you?

Your heart's beating way too fast, thundring wildly in your ears. It's Robb. He should know, no matter what. 

"Robb," you say. "I have something to tell you, but. It's bad."

Robb's face goes serious. He reaches out to put his hand on your shoulder.

"You're my sister," he says. "You can tell me anything."

It's too much. It's too much. You don't realize you've burst into tears until Robb gathers you in his arms, whispering hushes into your hair.

You hardly notice, so overtaken by shame that it seems to be happening very far away. Everything is _wrong_ and you're _wrong_ and you're a _liar_ and that's just it, Robb, can't you see? Robb's sister could tell him anything but that's not you and it's never been you and it's too much. It's too much. Your face crumples up, the lump in your throat like a hot coal trying to burn its way out. The force of your sobs shake all through your body so hard they feel like they’ll tear you apart.

Robb's soothing you, whispering _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm really sorry come here_ as he pets your hair. It barely registers, the crushing despair too acute, too heavy. 

For what feels like forever, you’ve been on the verge of tears, unable to cry, maybe unwilling. Sometimes you’d thought it’d be better if you could just get it over with, get the tears out, but they wouldn't come. Now, you wish you were still incapable: crying is no relief. Crying is the humiliation at your body's betrayal warring with the misery inside of you, the scornful voice in the back of your head hissing _boys don't cry_. 

It wracks your body, so overwhelming that at first you don’t realize that babbling. “I’m not," you're sobbing. “I’m _not,_ ” over and over. Shaking your head. _I'm not._ You clutch Robb’s shirt without meaning to, gripping so hard your knuckles go white.

You things were different. You wish you really were Robb's sister. No, you don’t—you don’t wish you were a girl. You wish they'd known you were a boy when you were born. Like they’d known with Robb, who has everything, who has always known who he is and where he fits into the world. It’s not _fair_. Nothing is fair. You wish no one ever thought you were something you weren’t. You wish it didn’t hurt like this. It's not fair. Nothing is fair. Everything is wrong, and it’s too much. 

You close your eyes and curl in closer to Robb, closing your mouth to muffle the desperate sobs. Try as you might, it doesn’t quell the tears or quiet the shaking. Robb tightens his arms around you, and you try not to think that this might be the last time he touches you without thinking you're a freak. 

Fighting the tears isn’t helping, so you force yourself to breathe through them instead. It helps, somewhat, turning the tears from flooding to trickling. To your shame, despite deep breathing, you can't control your sniffling. You drag the back of your hand across your face, making a disgusting snuffy _nnghh_ noise through the snot dripping from your nose.

"Lyanna?" Robb says, tentative.

Your chin trembles, dangerously. Without saying anything, you tuck yourself back into him, hiding your face in his shoulder again.

Robb resumes petting you, quiet for a long moment before asking, "You're... not my sister?"

You tense, another wave of panic crashing through you. For a movement, you barely even breathe, and then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you nod jerkily against his shoulder.

Robb goes quiet again. You can’t look at him; you’re desperate to know what he's thinking, but terrified to find out. Your throat’s so tight it’s hard to swallow, to even breathe.

For a while, the only sound is Robb's breathing and your muted snuffling, until Robb asks softly, "What does... what does that mean?"

He sounds strangely vulnerable, even hurt. You don’t understand. Disgust or derision you expected, but not _hurt_. Why would he be hurt? Doesn’t he get it?

It's Robb. You owe him the truth. 

Taking a deep breath, you squeeze your eyes shut and pull away. 

"I'm a boy," you say in a very small voice. Then unexpected determination makes you meet Robb’s gaze. Now that it’s out, you have to face the consequences. You have to face him. 

But when you look at him, you can’t tell what he’s thinking. He looks uncertain, like he can’t figure you out, or maybe can’t make up his mind about you, or maybe doesn’t know what to say. Babble rushes up your throat like bile.

"I know it's not normal," you say. "I know it isn’t. I get it if you don't want to talk to me, or, or be my brother anymore, I won't be mad—"

"Why would I ever want to stop being your brother?!" Robb asks, bewildered.

It halts you in your tracks. You search his face, tentative hope fluttering in your chest. "It's... weird?" you try.

“Being a boy isn’t _that_ weird,” says Robb, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. “I do it all the time.”

That startles you into giggles—they’re kind of pitchy and frantic, but still a relief after crying so hard. That wasn’t exactly what you meant, but, well. Alright, Robb. Fair enough.

"No," you say, still sort of laughing. "I mean, a... trans boy. A transgender boy. Isn't that weird?"

Robb’s expression clears.

"Nah," he says. "That's not weird. Weird is like, drinking Tabasco sauce out of the bottle in the middle of the night."

Affronted, you hit him on the shoulder. "That was _one time_!" 

It gets Robb giggling again, so you're forced to jab him in the ribs. He kicks you back, and another scuffle ensues, all gangly teenage elbows and jostling hands. 

Eventually Robb gives up and flomps on you instead, going boneless and groaning dramatically. 

He’s heavy. “Get off,” you grouse.

“Make me,” he says, so you do, elbowing him in the gut and pushing him off while he’s busy wheezing. 

He rolls over onto his back with an overdramatic _hggghhh_. “That wasn’t fair, pooplord,” he complains, plopping his hand flat on your face. 

You bat it away. “Whatever, fartbreath.”

“I do _not_ have fart breath.” 

“Do so,” you say.

He halfheartedly bumps his shoulder against yours in response, then stays there, not bothering to move away. 

It's quiet for another few moments. You start fidgeting, tensing up again, wondering what Robb's thinking. At least he doesn't hate you, you don’t think, and he didn't laugh at you—well, not at you being a boy—but you're still worried about what he must think about you now.

When you turn to look at Robb, though, he just looks thoughtful.

"So if you’re not a girl, do you not want to be Lyanna anymore?" he asks.

"No," you say, grimacing. You don't think you ever were, not really. "But I don't know what to be  
instead."

Robb mulls that over for a moment. "...Reginald?"

You choke. " _No_ ," you say, through the weird, relieved laughter bubbling up in your chest. You can't imagine being a Reginald, much less _choosing_ to be a Reginald.

"Melvin?" Robb suggests.

"God, shut _up_ ," you say, laughing. And then, after a moment, your mouth tilts up in a half  
smile, and you say, "...Ebenezer." 

Robb cackles, delighted you joined in on the game. "Montgomery," he offers.

"Donald."

"Earl."

"Abraham."

" _Abraham_. That one's a winner, I think."

"I am _not_ going to be an Abraham."

"Pity," says Robb. "Imagine having a brother named Abraham."

"If you like it so much, _you_ be Abraham," you tell him. "You could be Abe for short. Abbe. With two B's."

"Hey," Robb protests. "The two B's make it cool."

You make a skeptical noise in the back of your throat. Robb pulls an outraged face. 

"I'm leaving,” he says. “You're mean to me. I'm going to go share with Sansa."

"There wouldn't be room for you," you tell him. "She'd get mad if you moved her stuffed animals out of the way." 

Robb thinks about that. "I guess I have to stay here, then," he says, as if that wasn't the plan all along.

"Alright," you say, humoring him, before yawning so wide your jaw cracks.

He yawns back, and then, apparently deciding it’s time for sleep, he wriggles in close, tucking himself against you so he can go back to petting your hair. It’s exactly what he’s done every other time he’s shared your bed. You feel a rush of affection for him.

"You're a really good brother," you tell him quietly.

"Mmm," he says sleepily. "You too."

*

Over the next week, Robb greets you with different names every time he sees you. Chadwick. Earl. Walder. Aleksander. Podrick. One day, he doesn’t call you anything but names of Ninja Turtles, apparently hoping you’ll change your mind, but by the next day he seems to have either given up or forgotten. It’s ridiculous—Robb is ridiculous—but it’s sweet, and even as silly as the names sometimes are, it feels good to hear them. It feels normal. 

Today Robb’s already in the kitchen when you come up for breakfast. When he hears you, he glances up from where he’s leaning against the kitchen table, eating an apple. "Hey, Marcus."

"Not Marcus," you tell him, opening the fridge door to rummage around.

"Boo," says Robb. "James?"

"No."

"Optimus?"

You lean around the fridge door to make a face at him. " _Really_ no."

"Worth a shot," says Robb, crunching cheerfully into his apple.

Rolling your eyes, you look back in the refrigerator, considering for a moment before pouring yourself a glass of milk and heading over to stand next to Robb. 

A companionable quiet settles over the kitchen as you stand comfortably shoulder-to-shoulder with him. The two of you are of a height, as you have been for most of your lives. It always eases something in your chest to see it. With everything all tangled up in your head lately, it’s reassuring to have something familiar. You hadn’t realized how comforting it would be for Robb to know.

Speaking of which. Anticipatory nerves spark up in your stomach, which you resolutely ignore. With a deep breath to steel yourself, you set your glass down on the table behind you. 

“I was thinking,” you say, watching at Robb out of the corner of your eye. “For a name... Jon, maybe.” 

Robb looks up. “Jon?” 

“Yeah.” 

Robb takes another bite of his apple, chewing thoughtfully for a minute while you fidget, before swallowing and saying, “I like it. It’s boring. It suits you.” 

You scoff, trying to mask your relief. “Whatever, _Robert._ ” 

He gasps, apparently outraged that you would dare to call his name boring, and elbows you in the side. It’s escalating as quickly as ever, you batting his elbows away and attempting to shove his face while he tries futilely to get you into a headlock, when a stray elbow knocks the glass of milk. 

It topples dangerously, and both of you lunge to catch it, only barely managing to save it before it spills.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, as always, are welcome, as long as they do not misgender Jon (ie, referring to him with pronouns other than he/him/his, calling him by his birth name, etc), or anything about how you don’t see Jon as trans.


End file.
